


Sacrifice

by Adlanth



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-02
Updated: 2012-04-02
Packaged: 2017-11-02 22:27:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adlanth/pseuds/Adlanth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To go into the West, Eärendil and Elwing must lose everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacrifice

They had sailed swiftly before the wind, not daring to turn back, to even think of what had been left behind. Elwing's eyes, though human again, burned with a fey fire, as though forbidding him from asking the simplest of questions. ( _Did you see them? Did you see them die?_ ) She was Silmaril-bright now, and yet sometimes she reminded Eärendil of his own father, touched by the Sea-God.  
  
Now they were becalmed. Mist, thick but luminous, shrouded them: high above them they could see the sun, and knew that there were no clouds, only that enchanged fog. They could not see the sea, only hear it slosh, quietly, regularly, against the side of the ship. The force that held them back was almost tangible.  
  
 _And yet_ _there must be a way_.  
  
***  
  
He did not know how she had found them - those things he had treasured so well - or what she had been looking for that night. He found her sitting on his bunk, motionless, and they were on her lap.  
  
One was a shirt of simple linen, made to fit a small boy. The other, a small leather pouch, had lain wrapped inside it. Now Elwing had opened it, and its contents were in her hand: two loops of black hair, half enmeshed. He did not need to touch them to remember how they felt against his hands: warm and fine and sweet, like the bodies of his babies against his chest, their breath soft against the back of his hand, their heads round and warm beneath his palm.  
  
Elwing turned to him, her eyes sea-grey and burning even in the darkness of the cabin. When she spoke, it was as though the god spoke through her.  
  
"You cannot take this into the West," she said.  
  
***  
  
 _Did you see them, Elwing? Did you see them die? Are you_ certain _?_

If he could bring himself to ask, she would answer: _It does not matter_. _Prophecy is not enough: there must be sacrifice as well. You were born to save all. But not your children.  
  
_ And then, deserted by the god, she would think: _I did not need to see my brothers die to feel their loss. Or to know what is best: to stand your ground, to flee when you must, never to look back. Remember nothing, be as light and thoughtless as a bird. Even then I knew that.  
  
_ ***  
  
They went up to the deck. It was night still: the moon was one round eye, hanging full and grey in the sky, beyond the mist.  
  
Eärendil held the shirt, and the loops of hair. His hands trembled. _Can this be right? Can the gods demand this? They can't, it can't be. Yet it must._  
  
 _If only I could see them one last time. Grant me this one vision, and I shall ask for nothing, give all._  
  
But no miracle came. There was only the sound of the sea, the mist, and Elwing's hand in his, light and cool; and then he was kneeling near the side of the ship, staring down into dark waters, upon which the moon and the Silmaril cast a strange, accursed radiance.  
  
He held his hand out, and was still. Then he let go.  
  
The shirt drifted out, but it sank first, unfolding as it fell, and for one moment the shadow of a boy hung in the water. The hair bobbed upon the waves, smaller and smaller as it was carried away.  
  
And then the mist lifted, and the sails filled with wind, and Vingilot surged forward into the West. But for a while Eärendil saw nothing, for water, salt, and light.


End file.
